


one hundred and sixty miles to regret

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: A Safe Haven [4]
Category: Haven (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents (referenced), Alcohol, Animal Death (Referenced), Cigarettes, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, Father Figures, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Love, Multi, Mutant Powers, Platonic Relationships, Psychic Abilities, Riding, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Telekinesis, Timeline What Timeline, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Troubles (Haven), not beta read not perfect just a slab of words please enjoy, title from All This and More by Against Me!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-03 13:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17284676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Duke tended to pick to pick up strays.





	1. Chapter 1

Duke tended to pick to pick up strays.

It wasn’t like he _intended_ to, but he often happened to attract underdogs regardless of intent. It probably had something to do with his professions, both legal and illegal, and his history of being a beaten-down orphan who’d never had enough to eat. He and Nathan had come together in a messy tangle of old wounds and fresh heat, barriers worn down to the most vulnerable truths, and he fancied their relationship to be one of mutual understanding. They were both broken in ways that were soothed but never truly mended, and total absolution would never really be achieved. They were as close as they could get, for sure, and Duke found peace onboard his slowly rocking boat, Nathan pressed up against his back, a weight he welcomed. Two scarred old dogs.

There were kids, sometimes, that reminded him. Brought him crashing back to reality, yanked into the past, standing face-to-face with a gritty mirror. His teenage self, his anger, his misery, his hunger. Haven was an apocalyptic place at the best of times, citizens bound to its shores by obligation and genetics, trapped in a pretty prison that slathered polite conversation over supernatural insanity. Children grew up fast, they grew up tough, and eventually stealing bikes turned to stealing lives. It wasn’t their fault, these gutter babies. It was just the way of things. Duke knew the cogs and machinations of inevitability all too well, despised the system in ways Nathan could never empathise with.

He was working in his bar one night when a spectre from his past walked right fucking in.

The kid was short and slender, with a slanted face. He seemed young, too young to be in this bar, but his age was oddly difficult to place. He wore a thick jacket over flannel and a t-shirt, dressed like it was the dead of winter rather than the height of summer. Duke wiped a thick drop of sweat from his eyebrow with the inside of his wrist, astounded at the kid’s clothes. His jeans were heavy denim, rolled up above scuffed boots. His black hair was badly cut, fringe uneven, the short back-and-sides hairdo reminding Duke of the army brats he’d messed around with on his travels. The kid had done it himself, that was for sure; with rusty clippers, if Duke had to guess.

The newcomer walked up to the bar, cracking a forced smile, lips pressed together in an inauthentic grimace. Duke smiled back, trying to gauge the situation.

“Hey. Can I get a beer?”

He blinked. The kid’s accent was thick, and definitely not American– more importantly, not _local._ Shit. He’d really have to play this one carefully.

“Sure. ID first though, superstar.”

The kid’s expression crumpled immediately. Subtle, but Duke saw it. He rooted around in his pocket with a sigh, produced a leather wallet that was limp from age. He thumbed through it, produced a card, and hesitated before handing it over. Duke took it, noting how small the kid’s hands were– and when he saw the card, he thought, _ah._ He swallowed, nodded quickly to himself, and noted the date of birth. Twenty-one years old. He could drink here. Well, fuck it, that was all that mattered.

He handed it back. “You got a name, then?”

The kid frowned, like he’d expected Duke to mention the name printed in stark, cruel ink, or the printed headshot of someone who could’ve been his sister.

“I, uh,” he fumbled with his wallet, eventually pocketing it again, hands disappearing back into that overlarge jacket, “Yeah. I’m Ray.”

Duke nodded, offered a big grin. “Welcome to Haven, Ray.”

Still surprised, like he was waiting for the punchline, the kid took a tentative seat at the bar.

Duke gave him a beer.

 

***

 

Ray sure could drink.

He put away five beers and then two whiskeys, munching on some peanuts between slugs. Nobody paid him that much attention, and Duke kept one eye on him throughout the evening. His accent, Duke would have guessed, was Australian; he was an outsider here, and nobody came to Haven for a holiday. The fact that he’d ended up here at all was troublesome at best. He thought about his childhood jaunts across cities and states, remembered the bone-cold corners he’d shivered in, the thin blankets he’d stolen, the trips home in officer Wuornos' car.

Fuck.

Eventually, Ray made his way outside. He was walking pretty steadily, all things considered, his small frame apparently not a detriment to alcohol tolerance. He left a tip, and didn’t say goodbye. Duke watched him leave, jaw set hard, absentmindedly wiping his hands on the blue towel that hung from his jeans. He reconsidered the bar’s situation. It was winding down, only a few tables occupied, a gin-soaked regular by the name of Marvin slowly selecting the next musical number on the juke box. Fuck. _Fuck._ Damnit, he had to do this.

“Mind the bar,” he said to Mindy, who’d been waitressing with him since he heard about her history with juvie and dope– thereby proving that he was, despite best intentions, a fucking softie at heart. She gave him a vague wave, and he took off after Ray.

He found the kid sitting on a concrete step outside, legs crossed by the Grey Gull’s garbage bins. He was lighting a cigarette, hand cupped around the flame, face ducked forward. Duke took one more moment to consider all the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this, then proceeded forward with a sigh. Ray looked up when he heard Duke approaching, eyes wide with surprise, and Duke held up his hands in an expression of surrender.

“Relax, stud. Just me.”

Ray pursed his lips, then took a slow drag. Duke resumed walking toward him.

“Doesn’t mean much when I don’t know who you are, does it,” he said. It was a fair point, Duke conceded. He sat down with a huff, and Ray scooted over a bit to make room.

“I’m no threat, kid. Don’t you worry about that.”

Ray blew out a cloud of smoke and snapped his lighter shut. “A’ight.”

Duke licked at his lips, feeling awkward. The sound of the sea gently lapping against the docks was soft, humming through the warm night air. He could feel sweat pooling against his back, sticky under his singlet, and he considered the kid’s layered clothing with renewed astonishment. The moon cast them both in pale light, and he could only imagine how small the boy felt, alone in a very big world, very far from home. Duke ran a hand through his hair, tied it back in a ponytail, delaying the conversation. Ray silently smoked beside him.

“We don’t usually get outsiders here.”

“Guess I’m special then.” Ray replied, voice deadpan. Duke looked up at the moon, imagined he was talking to his former self, his teenage self who had been so very afraid.

“How much do you know about Haven?”

Ray looked at him, cigarette held between two chapped lips, hands stilled around his lighter. Duke held his gaze, not quite sure what Ray was fishing for.

“...I know there are troubled people here. People like me.”

Oh. Well, fuck. “You’re… troubled…?”

Ray smirked, but his eyes were tired. “In more fuckin’ ways than one.”

“I’m gonna need you to elaborate.”

The kid paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not Duke was in on the truth, but eventually decided to take the leap. He held out one hand, palm up, the lighter resting in the middle of his hand. Duke didn’t miss the bruised shape of his knuckles, rubbed raw by impact. He raised his eyebrows when the lighter, as if pulled by an invisible wire, levitated up off Ray’s skin by a few inches. It spun slowly in the air on some kind of unseen axis, then lowered back down. A short demonstration, but one that made its point.

“Shit,” Duke said.

Ray’s smile became more genuine. “That’s all you have to say? Christ, this place must be a fuckin’ trip if telekinesis doesn’t register on your too-weird meter.”

“Telekinesis? That what this is?”

“I can move shit with my mind, dunno what else you’d call it. Like I have a fuckin’ clue.”

“That’s fair,” Duke admitted. He was starting to like this kid more and more. “Look, I don’t want to be some boring grandpa here, but-”

“I don’t think anyone could mistake you for a grandpa, dude,” Ray remarked wryly.

“Ha, funny. But seriously, you’re… young. And I’d be a shitty adult if I didn’t ask what your… What your situation is. Do your parents know that you’re… troubled?”

Ray looked out over the sea again. He took a drag, this time slower, obviously uncomfortable and trying to come up with some kind of answer. Jesus Christ, seeing this kid curled up smoking tobacco was almost like looking directly into a memory. If Duke hadn’t been immune to the troubles, he’d have genuinely suspected some kind of supernatural time warp bullshit.

“You saw my ID. Before.”

“Yeah…”

“You saw the name. The picture.” Ray tapped the top of the cigarette to ash it above the concrete. Duke’s heart hurt a little, because he could sense this story before it was even told.

“Your parents don’t call you Ray, huh.”

Ray didn’t nod, or give any indication to the contrary. But he didn’t need to. Duke almost wanted to hug him, but was very cognisant of the fact that this boy was, for all intents and purposes, a complete stranger.

“Well,” Duke sighed, a heavy breath that rushed from his mouth and sounded more exhausted than he intended, “look, if you’re sticking around, there’s a shrink you should see. She helps troubled people with… their abilities. Helps them cope, y’know. And maybe she can help with… other things, too. I’m no good at that stuff. Parent stuff.” He paused. “You got a place to stay?”

Ray shook his head.

“You got any money?”

“Little bit,” Ray replied, “had a job before I ran away.”

 _Fuck,_ Duke was going to say it. He really was. Duke bit the inside of his cheek and hoped to high heaven that he wouldn’t have angry, transphobic conservatives knocking on his door in a month, looking for someone they still called their daughter. Really, it was a foregone conclusion. No fucking way he could leave this poor kid alone to be homeless and at risk.

“I’ve got a studio upstairs. It’s basically a cupboard next to the other renter, but it’s… something. And I’m looking for someone to work nights.”

Ray shot him an alarmed look, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. "You don't even know me."

"I know a lost kid when I see one. Us orphans gotta stick together."

Ray continued to watch him nervously, and Duke waited. Kicked dogs were like that, and he knew the sensation all too well. Things couldn't move too fast, or the boy would flee into the night and end up dead within a week.

Eventually, his shoulders drooped forward, his posture relieved and defeated all at once, and he didn't look down quickly enough to hide the tears that sprung into his brown eyes. Duke lifted an arm, awkwardly pulled him closer into a half-hug. They stayed there like that for a little bit, Ray sniffing and rubbing at his eyes, inhaling cigarette smoke every now and then. Duke wondered when this had happened, when he'd become a man that lived in a comfortable home and had a steady partner, sitting here on a step, comforting a version of his younger self. Time had passed far too quickly, dizzying in its surreality. But it felt good. To be here, doing for someone else what nobody ever did for him.

"...Thank you," Ray said after a good few minutes, young voice scratchy and thick.

Duke smiled sadly. 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

When Nathan slid down onto Duke, he let his head tip back, his eyes falling closed. Natural as anything. His knees made imprints on the bed, the mattress shifting ever so slightly, the bed creaking in tandem with tentative movements. Everything was amplified. Just the two of them. No sound was louder than the quietest breaths, the bitten-off whimpers, the groans that would build in Duke’s chest, breaking free, unimpeded by propriety or the distance of two men who were afraid. There was no fear left. Intimacy did that. It stripped you of everything, left you bare and free, a malleable being in the hands of your lover.

Duke knew sex. He knew it well.

But this was something else altogether.

Duke hissed quietly underneath Nathan, head pressing back against the pillow, a shaky sigh falling from his lips. Black hair, streaked through with the faintest touches of silver, spilled about his head, a wayward strand touching upon his brow. Nails scraping gently across skin, leaving faint red lines beneath the wheat-pale hairs that coloured Nathan’s upper thighs. Nathan groaned, low and pleased, letting himself adjust. A swivel of his waist that made Duke shudder. It was always like this, when Nathan was on top. Duke would let him do whatever he wanted, would lie there moaning hopelessly, resisting every urge to turn them over, to hoist Nathan’s body higher and jerk his hips upward into that tight warmth. Control seeped seamlessly from him to the man he’d once called an adversary, his only option to beg and plead for Nathan to move faster.

Willing surrender.

Nathan looked down at him, mouth open wide, lips wet from their kissing. His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded and almost feverish in their pale green lust, redness tingling down his neck and onto the beginning of his chest. They weren’t as young as they’d once been, the sharp lines of their bodies softened by age, but this wasn’t a relationship made superficial by needless judgement. They had built a nest of familiarity around them, warm air moving through the open window to touch upon damp skin, the afternoon sun colouring pale curtains as they gently swayed. The unlikely small-town sweethearts who had redefined everything about Haven. Two pairs of denim pants strung over the back of a desk chair, flannel tossed aside, scuffed boots toed off in the frenzy they still found whenever they were together. Softer, now. More meaningful than it had once been.

But no less visceral.

Nathan dragged a palm across Duke’s sternum, mimicking the marks on his own thighs, whiter skin against darker tan. Duke loved this. All of it. And so did Nathan; the pressure inside him, Duke’s cock filling him up, the intoxication of power combined with the innate vulnerability of being able to feel physical touch at all. Nathan arched his body forward fast, Duke responding in kind, chin tilting up toward the ceiling, a helpless noise yanked from the centre of his very soul. The wayward barterer didn’t get more honest than this, and neither did Nathan. So he kept moving, naked in Duke’s lap, the curve of his ass flush against hot flesh. Slapping, now. Nathan got a rhythm going, braced against Duke’s body, spreading his legs to sink down further. Duke flailed at him, hands coming to grab at his forearms, clinging tight.

They never looked away.

Whenever Duke tried, eyelids fluttering as he tried to hold himself back from the edge, Nathan would touch his cheek, demanding his attention. A disarmingly soft action in the midst of such a carnal act.  _Be with me_ , he was saying,  _stay with me, here_. He knew it was hard, knew how much it often hurt for Duke to do this, to be open in ways he had never believed he could, but that’s exactly why Duke needed to. Even after all these years. Nathan took everything from him with the promise that everything–  _all_  of it, not one single inch remaining– would be safe in Nathan’s hands. There was no safety net. There was nothing further than the air between them, hot with mingled breaths, lips bumping as Nathan slumped forward, pistoning his hips up and down, the bedposts slamming against the wall now. He moved faster, faster, and didn’t try to hold back his moans, let Duke see him completely.

It was only fair.

  


***

  


They lay still for a while.

Nathan was sprawled atop Duke like a languid cat, one knee drawn up, the other foot nestled long between Duke's ankles. He was toying with Duke's hair, twisting it into miniature braids that would untangle the moment Duke sat up. The scents of cooking from somewhere nearby wafted into Nathan's bedroom, their gasps still settling into a normal rhythm. All was quiet.

Duke ran a hand down the line of Nathan's back, his touch curving around the shape of bone, the wings of Nathan's shoulder blades. When they kissed, it was the softest brush of stubble and chafed lips, Duke smiling at the rasp of Nathan's unshaven chin. He'd been taking time off work, lately, which meant that the near-military standard he applied to his appearance was slipping into something more honest. Something more domestic.

Duke took Nathan's face in one hand, cupped the line of his jaw, licking hot into his mouth until Nathan was kissing back, inching up the bed to get a better angle. When Nathan moaned, it was muffled.

"Too tired," he protested breathlessly. When he dropped his forehead down onto Duke's shoulder with a petulant huff, Duke laughed calmly. He continued painting invisible patterns along the contours of Nathan's back, daintily touching the scars that a young life of violence and numbness had left upon his partner. A couple of years ago, Nathan had narrowly avoided a health scare; a mole that had darkened and grown in size, insidiously spreading cancer cells throughout the skin, and deeper, working its way inward. They'd caught it early enough that Nathan's life had been saved. Duke traced the puckered scar that remained, the hardened white skin that served to remind him of the time they had left.

Their life was a weatherworn one, a tired happiness that they'd earned after so many years of hardship.

Duke thought about Ray.

If he looked around now, he saw all the evidence of a home that one could ask for. His clothes in a draw in Nathan's apartment. His hairbrush by Nathan's sink. Their lives intwining and mixing and colouring one another, Nathan's newly rediscovered photography hobby leaving dozens upon dozens of faded polaroids around Duke's ship.

He wondered if the kid would ever have this.

"You okay?"

Duke smiled somewhat sadly. Nathan, curled against his chest like the warmest promise, was as perceptive as ever. Those sky blue eyes gazing at him so imploringly.

"Met a kid recently. He's..." Duke sighed, glancing down at the curve of Nathan's shoulder just as an excuse to look away, "He's a lot like I was, back when I..."

Nathan didn't interrupt. He continued to braid Duke's hair.

"...Seems like his situation is different than mine, but still, he... reminded me."

"And that hurt you," Nathan murmured gently.

Duke swallowed. Talking about this stuff didn't hurt as much any more, not in this safe place, not in this bed.

"Yeah," he admitted.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update: do not refer to Ray as 'her'. Ray is a transgender male, like myself. If you are going to leave comments on my writing, respect the identity of my original character, and my identity as a transgender man.

They had coffee in Nathan’s kitchen, got dressed, and climbed in Nathan’s 1979 Ford Bronco. It was still kicking after all these years, lovingly tended to by them both, and used far more often than Duke’s Rover, which spend its days mainly gathering dust. They spent so much time together, at this rate, they might as well have been married.

When they pulled up outside the Grey Gull, Duke eagerly peered through the windscreen, unable to suppress a smile when he saw Ray waiting. The kid was slouched on the steps, knees spread wide, elbows resting on his thighs, hands dangling down between his legs. The beanie he wore was ratty and battered, tiredness bruising his eyes, suggesting to Duke that he’d spent the rest of the night smoking and walking around, not trusting himself to sleep in an area so unfamiliar.

“That’s the kid?” Nathan asked as he parked. There was a note of hesitation in his voice, a slight frown denting his forehead. Duke knew why. “I thought you said ‘him’…”

“He’s trans.”

“Oh.” Nathan nodded, his expression clearing. Haven wasn’t known for its progressive social stance, which tended to happen to islands cut off from the outside world. As an officer of the law, and a bisexual guy in a committed relationship with another man, Nathan had lately taken it upon himself to inspire change among old colleagues and acquaintances. His efforts had been largely appreciated and impactful, and they’d been able to amass the kinds of resources that they’d never grown up with. Support systems and such.

“So,” Nathan continued, sensing the narrative even before Duke elaborated, “his parents don’t accept him. And he’s telekinetic.”

“Yup.” Duke took a sip from the thermos he’d brought with him, clearing his throat. He was nervous, and knew Nathan could sense it.

“I’ve worked with kids like him before. In both situations. If you need me to…”

“No. He trusts me. And… It’ll be good, I think. For me.” He took another gulp of coffee, missing the concerned look Nathan gave him. The fates of children, especially these kinds of children, were always precarious, and often heartbreaking. He had the tools– and training– to deal with that kind of crushing loss. Duke didn’t. Nathan knew the differences between them, knew he could be objective in ways Duke couldn’t, knew he’d never had to sleep in a cardboard box underneath a bridge because his dad was hopped up on promethazine and codeine, too high and drunk to care for his own son.

“Duke…”

“I got it. I promise.” Duke stowed his thermos in the car door, leaning across to kiss Nathan softly. They lingered for a moment, and when Duke pulled back, Nathan’s eyes were guarded.

“Call me,” Nathan whispered, “If it gets too much.”

Duke’s lips quirked up into a smile that fell just short of being convincing. “You got it, babe.”

Despite himself, Nathan chuckled at the pet name. Duke got out of the car, closed the door behind him. Nathan watched him walk away, fingers too-tight on the steering wheel. He made brief eye contact with Ray, and waved through the window. The kid seemed to smile quizzically, and waved back.

 

***

 

“Is that your boyfriend?”

Duke regarded Ray with undisguised amusement as he approached him. People were rarely so blunt.

“Good morning to you as well, Ray.”

Ray stood up, staggering a bit, his movements stiff. He rubbed at his neck and yawned.

“You made up your mind? You want to stay?”

“Yeah,” Ray replied eagerly, holding the straps of his backpack tight, unintentionally making himself look younger, as if he were just some high school student. That one bag probably contained all of his belongings. “I’m really thankful, man. I’ll work as hard as you need me too, won’t even sleep if that’s what’s necessary. You don’t have to pay me, just as long as I’ve got a place to stay, then-“

“You’ll get paid,” Duke insisted, not unkindly, “And you will work hard, yes. I have rules, though, which you’ll need to abide by.”

Ray nodded, taking this very seriously. The drunken apathy and miserable indifference of last night seemed to have been replaced by excited hope, the kind of limitless potential only a homeless kid or a newly-released inmate could possibly feel.

“No smoking in the Grey Gull. You smoke out here, and you keep yourself smelling fresh whenever you’re around customers.”

“Got it.”

“No drinking while you’re working, and no bingeing while you’re living here. It’s too easy to fall into that trap when things are bad. Understood?”

“Yeah.”

“You work from four in the afternoon until ten or eleven at night. You start out as a dishwasher, and when there are no dishes, you’ll clean. You’ll start out at twenty dollars an hour.”

“Twenty dollars,” Ray frowned, “I thought minimum wage in this country was, like, seven fifty.”

Duke laughed, crossing his arms. He’d heard about the rest of America, how insanely poor it was, the divide between the rich and the impoverished growing wider with every passing year. “It is. But this is Haven, so we’re a little more sane here. Sane being a… matter for perspective.”

“Yeah,” Ray snickered, “I heard you got all kinds of mutants here. Sane probably isn’t the right word. Well-adjusted, maybe.”

“I meant to ask, last night. How’d you hear about Haven? Is word spreading?”

The amusement bled from Ray's face, and Duke sensed he'd hit a nerve. For a long moment, Ray didn't- or couldn't– reply, and Duke waited for an answer.

“My dad, he… He came from here.”

Duke thought back to the ID he’d seen last night, remembering the last name that had been listed. He hadn't put it together back then, because there'd been no reason to make that intellectual leap. His chest tightened, and he hoped the shock wasn't too obvious in his expression.

“Hansen. Your dad is Max Hansen.”

Ray flinched, and Duke didn’t miss it. Fuck. Hansen had fled Haven after doing time for aggravated assault and domestic abuse, breaking free from prison using telekinesis that nobody had been aware he possessed. He’d forced his wife to leave with him, and Duke had distinct memories of Garland Wuornos obsessively trying to track him down, driven to near-madness by his hatred of the man’s violent sexism. They’d never found him. He must've had a kid after settling in Australia. Duke took a step back, taking Ray in anew. _Shit_. The likeness was there, in the cut of Ray’s jaw and his steady gaze, but his posture said he took after his mother, at least in terms of what they'd experienced at the hands of Max.

The silence was heavy. The Gull was closed at this time of the morning, and nobody was around to interrupt their conversation. Ray kept his eyes trained on the ground, like he was afraid of what Duke would do.

“Does he... Does he know you're here...?"

Ray's mouth tightened, his jaw flexing. "No."

"But he knows you're gone."

"No."

Duke was confused. "How...?"

Ray looked up at Duke, hands falling from the straps of his backpack. He looked tired, but determined.

"He's dead."

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like my OCs hard and raw, what can I say.   
>  Mentions of abuse, drug use, and violence in this chapter. Also Australian cursing.

Duke got Ray inside before beginning the interrogation, which he figured was the path of least resistance, and also the route of basic respect before he peeled back the layers to this young man’s deepest pain. They went to the studio, which amounted to little more than a closet just big enough to live in. A sink and kitchen tucked right next to the door, and two paces away, a tiny bedroom with a single bed that took up half its space. It hadn’t been vacuumed or cleaned in a while, because Duke hadn’t been using it for anything. There was a full-size window at the end of the bedroom, about six paces from the entry door itself, which opened out onto the balcony also shared by Audrey’s room. The whole studio was a narrow, suffocating affair that Duke would have hated now, but he knew what Ray saw. He knew what he would’ve seen when he was that age.

The kid put down his bag on the bare mattress, stood in dumbfounded silence in the middle of the bedroom. If he had lifted up his arms, he’d have been able to touch each fingertip to the walls. Duke, who was much taller, would not have been able to stretch out at all.

Ray turned back to where Duke stood, leaned against the front door. There were tears in those honeyed brown eyes, wet with emotion, and Duke cleared his throat loudly. Not because he was trying to hurry the boy along. He just felt fucking awkward.

“Welcome to your new home, I guess.”

“Thanks,” Ray began, stopping short of elaborating further. Duke understood. The boy sat down on the mattress, and Duke didn’t miss the way he sighed with relief at the soft surface. Concrete and cardboard did that to you, after a while. A plucked violin cord below your skin in place of a pulse, limbs vibrating, all of your senses keyed into every atom of the universe around you, while you paradoxically exist in exhausted limbo. The place between waking and the deepest kind of unconsciousness. Insomnia. _That_ was what it felt like to be homeless and afraid.

Ray looked down at his lap, rubbed tiredly at his face.

“You want to know about dad.”

“Yeah,” said Duke. Duke Crocker, the teenager who had cornered his father with a gun at the age of fifteen, driven to desperation in ways no child ever should be. He’d gotten nothing more than a fat lip and a black eye for his troubles, knocked to the floor like a doll when his father swatted the weapon from his small hands, but he wouldn’t judge any other kid for having the balls to do what he hadn’t been able to.

Ray huffed out a groan, the sound catching in his throat. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?”

“You think I killed him.”

“Just tell me how he died.”

Ray laughed bitterly. “Suspicious bastard, aren’t you. Look, you don’t need to worry. He did it to himself, more or less. Got a tip from an old cellmate about a pimp house that wasn’t heavily guarded, so they went in at night, fixing to rob the joint.”

Duke frowned. “What happened?”

The boy shrugged. His face was so young, cheeks so smooth, that the greyed marks under his eyes only accentuated the desperation of his situation. “Cunt had a prizefighter on guard. Pitbull, damn near skinned from fights, poor fuckin’ thing… It started barking, alerted the pimp’s guards before dad could put it down. Or so I hear. News said he got eight rounds in the chest ‘fore he went down, and his mates weren’t far behind. Always was a tough motherfucker.”

His tone of voice was more bored than anything else, and Duke recognised the apathy of his perspective. It was his unsurprised attitude towards crime that really worried him.

“I’m… sorry to hear that.”

Ray glared at Duke, exasperated and unimpressed that Duke had bothered with the pleasantry. “Don’t be.”

“You don’t seem shocked by what he’d been trying to do.”

“What, rob a place? Come on, man. I come from south Sydney. Dad ended up running with the fucking Bandidos.”

“…Bandidos…?”

“Bikie gang. Dad was mainly just fodder, but he distributed too.”

Drugs. _Shit_. Duke had hoped the kid hadn’t been exposed to that life. It must’ve shown on his face too, because Ray shook his head adamantly, and insisted, “Look, man, I know how it sounds. I’m straight, though. Never done drugs in my life, herb aside. My country’s in the grip of an ice epidemic, I’ve seen my friends waste away… Never wanted that shit fucking me up. ‘Sides, I’m gonna transition someday, and there’s no point screwing with my body if I want Testosterone to work right. For the moment, tobbacco’s my only vice, and I’m trying to quit that as well. Trying,” he sighed, “and failing. If I can make it here, then I'll... look into getting a support system. Therapists and shit. Kick the addiction, start over.”

“Well,” Duke conceded, “smoking’s one thing. But you can’t stay here if you’re going to bring that other kind of life into Haven.”

Ray barked out a short burst of laughter, which was genuine. “What, so I start a one-person train of distribution? Shit, I’d be dead within a week. Nah man, I’m not interested in that. This is… a new start. A fresh start.” His words had quietened towards the end of that declaration, the bluster of a tumultuous upbringing fading to reveal a much more sincere, troubled youth. Duke took a seat beside him, pursing his lips as he figured out what to say.

Ray was still a kid who’d lost his parent.

“…It’s… hard to control…” Ray began softly, fidgeting as he tried to keep his voice steady, “…My telepathy, sometimes, it…”

A problem Duke had heard many times. He lifted an arm, held Ray’s shoulders. A one-armed hug that kept enough distance between them for the kid to be comfortable.

“Trauma or conflict can make that worse, especially for young men your age,” he explained gently.

Ray sniffed at rubbed at his eyes. “Yeah. Figures.”

“What happened to your mother?”

“She was seeing someone else way before dad died. Didn’t notice I’d left. She never cared about me, only…”

“…Only?”

“Only meth.” Ray sniffed again, voice wavering this time, quaking with loneliness. “The bitch only cared about meth.”

 

 


End file.
